


Rest in Shadow

by yonderlight



Series: between the crosses [5]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: 1917 OCs, Afterlife, Canon-Typical Violence, Ghosts, M/M, Missing Scene, Supernatural Elements, World War I, fic of a fic, ghost!Blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29560476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderlight/pseuds/yonderlight
Summary: SPOILERS for @Ealasaid and @Pavuvu's fic:the guns below / now we liefrom thebetween the crossesseries (OCs created by them)A Pickering POV ficlet that expands on his scene with Tom at the end ofChapter 10
Relationships: Lance Corporal Farley/Private Pickering, Private Pickering & Tom Blake
Series: between the crosses [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656289
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Rest in Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ealasaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/gifts), [Pavuvu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/gifts).



The shelling near Jonchery is terrific. It is maddening and numbs his every sense.

Private Pickering quivers, he can’t help it, caught as he is in a newly formed crump hole between the German and British lines, his belly pressed tight to the ground.

He continues to hug the earth as jolting machine gun fire sweeps over his head, furious and piercing.

When there is a lull in the barrage, a rational thought breaks through the cloud of dumb panic: _move now, before another strafe_ , his mind demands. _NOW_. But his body won’t comply. Stricken by frightful uncertainty, he simply cannot force his limbs to obey.

It’s not until he remembers Farley’s stubborn determination to continue advancing after he took one in the arm, it’s not until he imagines Farley’s gruff voice in his head, _“Come on,_ move _, you bloody coward!”_ that Pickering is finally compelled onward.

Hauling himself up in a sudden bolt of energy, he sprints forward, spying other members of his platoon running alongside him in his peripheral vision. But he barely has a moment to get his bearings before an explosion obliterates his entire world.

The blast hits him like a ton of bricks and he is harshly flung, spread-eagled, into the man behind him, both blown skyward and then slammed back into the foul slurry.

Pickering tries to gasp and for a terrible moment he is back buried in the dugout collapse at Passchendaele, with the weight of muck and mire upon his chest as he struggles to breathe…

A whimper escapes from his screaming lungs at the dawning shock of seeing his torn right leg, ground up like raw meat below the knee, and feeling the splintering, heavy pain in his torso.

His bare head falls back with a splat against the mucinous soil as horrified disbelief fades into supreme sorrow.

Dying is… it’s altogether unbearably slow and much too quick all at once – an entire eternity in the dial ticks of a minute hand. He finds himself desperately clinging to life, grasping with feeble hands for a resolution that slides from his clutches with all the ferocity and futility of a leaking sandbag. He does not want this. He never wanted any of this.

Pickering knows now what comes after – or at least, he thinks he does. (There is still a nagging anxiety whispering against his soul that _this is it and nothing else will follow_. Or worse, that he is bound for a hell far crueler than the one he’s found himself in this past year.)

He is cold and alone and there is a feeling of shame that afflicts him now, stronger still than the physical agony that ruthlessly grips his nerves.

And then, it’s over.

Pickering bobs along a gentle swirling current, quiet and still, darkness sinking into lightness until his surroundings slowly swim back into view.

He thinks he is crouching (or is he sitting?), it’s difficult to orient himself, and he looks over with eerie detachment at his crumpled body, his gaze lingering for only a moment before he is forced to turn away.

The other men who fell around him haven’t yet fully materialized, their spirits faintly coiling and billowing around their still warm corpses. Pickering’s fingers twitch towards them out of habit, ready to quickly pull those delicate tendrils into the weaves of his tunic – until he remembers.

Curling into himself beside his body, he lightly floats just above the omnipresent mud that no longer sticks to his spectral uniform. He’s not sure how long he remains that way, chin tucked down and legs pressed tightly to his chest, only eventually becoming aware that the firing and distant shouts around him had ceased.

“Pickering…?”

He stretches out from the foetal position to find Tom standing before him.

“Oh,” Tom lets out a breath, stricken; and Pickering finds himself at the receiving end of unbearable pity seeping out from Tom’s eyes.

“I finally got mine,” Pickering concedes.

Tom stares at him wretchedly, reduced to silence. Wordlessly, he helps him to his feet. Welcoming the comfort, Pickering immediately slumps against Tom's form.

“Who’ll tell Farley?” Pickering finally asks, numbly. He looks down at his body, twisted and bloodstained, glassy eyes upturned toward the sky. “They evacuated him out this morning.”

“You can, if you want,” Tom offers.

Pickering flinches. “I - I can’t. I let him down.”

He can’t stand the thought of seeing Farley’s face when he hears the news, or watch the angry tears that form which Farley bitterly fights to hold back. Of him knowing that Pickering wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t brave enough, to see it through ‘til the end. “When this is all over Pick,” Farley had once whispered in his ear, breath hot and heavy on Pickering’s neck, “I’m taking you straight to me favourite pub, and I’ll get ya so fucking plastered you’ll be reciting those bloody bible verses from the Devil-dodgers cross-eyed, yeah? And I won’t take you home until you’re begging for it like a French tart.” Farley often casually spoke that way, filling his head with things they would do, places they would see, until Pickering allowed himself to believe in those fantasies.

“Will you…accompany me to the churchyard? I don’t want to go on alone,” Pickering hates the childlike plea he hears in his voice.

“‘course I will.” Peering out in the distance, Tom points northward, “I think I saw one down this transport road, just over the ridge.”

“Thank you.” Pickering nods, mustering up his resolve. Instinctively trying not to put any weight on his mangled leg, he starts to hobble forward.

Tom’s hand is quick to grab his shoulder. “It’s alright, you can still walk. Look here, there’s no pain anymore, see?” Tom says gently.

It’s true - Pickering realizes that he doesn’t feel any further discomfort. He feels a bit silly after that, unsure whether he ought to laugh or cry. He carefully focuses on drifting, automatically moving his legs like he used to in life, and finds he can just as easily propel himself forward. Pickering thinks back to the countless other maimed ghosts he’s observed moving along in that horrible, fitful manner of theirs, still believing to be bound by their mortal wounds and wholly unaware of their mobility after death. Now he would never be able to help them. There’s still so much he doesn’t know... _will never know_ …

“Pickering...the church is the other way.”

Startled from his thoughts, Pickering balks. Why had he been moving with such certainty in the opposite direction?

Tom answers his unspoken question. “You’re drawn to them now, remember? The deadmen.”

Regarding him sadly, Tom then looks off. “It’s Farley you’re sensing, isn’t it?” he says softly.

Pickering doesn’t answer, still processing this information. He briefly considers this other alternative, imagining a future where he stays behind like Tom, roughly but tenderly tucked away in one of Farley’s pockets, watching over him like the guardian angels he used to believe in and pray to.

But he’s had enough. He knows that now. Pickering doesn’t have it in him to remain in this war any longer. He can’t…

By the time they reach the small cemetery, there's mercifully less than an hour to wait until midnight. Pickering is solemn, reflective, trying not to give in to the weary sort of sullenness that threatens to engulf him. Grateful for Tom’s company, his presence alone soothes Pickering’s worst impulses. He wants to feel courageous, exalted, like he’s meant to, _he who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty,_ but all he feels is hollow resignation when he’s not flickering back to the exact instant when the shell blast slammed into him.

And then, before he knows it, the bell strikes twelve.

The Grim is a friendly-enough looking shepherd, taking the form of an Old English sheepdog, but nevertheless its supernatural presence fills Pickering with tremendous unease. Peering out behind an otherwise endearing flop of white shaggy hair, its uncanny eyes seek him out instantly. It gallops up to Pickering, cold nose nudging at his hands and waist, and then faces the church ruins. The Grim takes a couple steps towards it before it stops and looks back expectedly at Pickering.

_It’s time._

Pickering follows behind the enticing waves of serenity and reconciliation the Grim leaves in its wake, edging closer and closer, until he catches sight of Tom to his side. For the briefest of moments he thinks Tom will join him, but the older ghost merely gives a jerky shake of his head and shrinks further back.

“Will you, will you tell Farley I-” Pickering suddenly doesn’t know what to say, realizing with regret that it’s too late to go back on his decision to leave without saying goodbye.

But the Grim coaxes him forward and those thoughts trouble him no longer. This world fades from view as he is ushered into the next one.

He hopes it’s a better world.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my small love letter to this absolutely awe-inspiring world by @Ealasaid and @Pavuvu that they so wonderfully created. Before I had the chance to meet them, I was reading their series and excitedly waiting for updates; so I'm incredibly honored I could add my little contribution to their AU.  
> There's always something new to discover when re-reading their work, and so to all their readers, both old and new, I hope their series continues to get all the love and attention it so deserves!  
> To @Ealasaid, I'm eternally grateful for the friendship we've formed this past year and congratulations on getting Between the Crosses printed and bound <3


End file.
